


And He'll Never Know

by JuliaJekyll



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Hurt, Internalized Homophobia, Language, M/M, POV John, Pining, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He used to tell Paul everything, but now that 'everything' includes the fact that John has fallen hopelessly, painfully, harshly in love with him, he doesn't anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And He'll Never Know

John can't fucking help it.

It isn't exactly that he can't keep his eyes off Paul. He _can_ , but it takes a concentrated effort. He's constantly asking himself if he's staring, if he's paying attention to something that someone who wasn't utterly, pathetically besotted wouldn't, if there's just that crucial bit too much emotion in his eyes. But he can't help it; he loves watching Paul.

The four Beatles, along with Brian, some other guys, and a couple of birds, are relaxing in a small cabin they've rented somewhere in southern Canada. It's December, and Christmas is just a few weeks away. They've got a couple of days off between gigs, and John finds that he's rather enjoying the break. It gives him time to be close to Paul, to relish his company.

To watch him.

In the depths of his heart, John wishes he had the freedom to stare at Paul for hours and then, when he's looked his fill, when he's good and ready, to attack his lips with his own, pull him close, pant desperately into his mouth, then pull back, only to spread increasingly frantic kisses across that beloved face, down that inviting neck. He wants to hold Paul so tightly that it hurts both of them, wants to taste him, to _claim_ him. He wants to kiss Paul until his lips are one giant bruise, wants to feel Paul's fingers in his hair, on his skin. He wants to place his hand on Paul's chest, over his heart, and tell him everything.

He used to tell Paul everything, but now that _everything_ includes the fact that John has fallen hopelessly, painfully, _harshly_ in love with him, he doesn't anymore.

John is quiet and moody tonight, and he knows it. He just can't bring himself to smile and mess around like he usually does. It doesn't seem to be a major detriment to their casual gathering. Paul laughs and talks to the lads, George is absorbed in kissing his new girlfriend's neck, and Brian is more relaxed than John's seen him in a long while. Only the occasional brief, concerned glance from Ringo shows John that someone else has noticed his mood.

The party starts to break up after midnight, until, aside from the band, only Brian and George's girl (whose name John can't remember) remain. John watches the couple jealously, wishing he could be doing something similar with Paul. He isn't sure exactly how long he's loved him, but it feels like a thousand years sometimes. It's a sharp and relentless feeling, to want so much and not be able to have any of it.

Paul is beautiful in the soft lights. His hair is a mess, his eyes bright though they're rimmed with slight dark circles, his smile as honest as ever. John is watching him good and proper now, not even bothering to attempt subtlety anymore, and he wants him so badly he can hardly breathe.

Eventually he can't take it anymore and he goes outside on the pretext of wanting a cigarette even though he doesn't, not particularly. To his relief, no one follows him. Its too cold, he supposes, pulling his collar up as he fumbles in his left-hand pocket for his lighter. No reason not to smoke now that he's out here, he reasons, and besides, it'll provide at least a tiny bit of warmth and light to the dark, starless night.

He's watching smoke trail away into nothingness and trying to stop seeing Paul's curving smile in his mind's eye when he hears the door behind him slide open, then shut again. He clenches his fist in his pocket and briefly considers telling whoever it is to fuck off, but then he notices how soft the footsteps are, and George's girlfriend appears beside him, carefully extracting a cigarette from her own pack.

John glances at her as she lights up, and she glances back coolly. She's a pretty enough bird; dark hair, dark eyes, long lashes, a long, pale neck that has a slight bruise on it already from George's kissing, but she's not really John's type, which is kind of why he rather likes her. He's got no real interest in sleeping with her, so he can actually have a decent conversation with her, as he found out a couple days before when George first introduced her to the group. Plus, she seems to be making George happy, which John can't fault. And so, he doesn't mind her smoking next to him as much as he would one of his bandmates.

They stand in silence, as if the other weren't there, for a moment, and then the bird (it's driving John crazy that he can't remember her name) speaks, three words that make John's blood run cold: “Does he know?”

Her voice, made more distinctive by her broad American accent, is calm, nonjudgmental, but John still startles. He looks at her. She meets his eyes, and he can see that she's done what Paul has never been able to do, this woman he barely knows: she's read him. Like an open bloody book. John's got no idea how she's managed it, but she has, and he knows he can do nothing less than answer her honestly.

“No,” he says, turning away and taking another quick drag. “I don't think so.”

The bird nods and turns away as well, inhaling deeply on her own fag. John waits, knowing she's not done.

She exhales slowly, then asks “Do you want him to?”

John turns on her, a spike of fear and anger twisting in his stomach. “So help me, if you say a fucking word-”

The bird rolls her eyes, unflinching. “Please. What kind of person d'you think I am, Lennon?”

John shrugs. “How the hell should I know?”

“Well, I'm not the kind who goes around spilling other people's secrets. Even if you did want him to know, I wouldn't be the one to tell him.”

John calms at that. He flicks the ash off his cigarette.

He doesn't want to ask the question. He _really_ doesn't want to, but she's the only one who's ever figured it out, as far as he can tell, and for some reason he needs her answer. “You don't think it's...” he makes a vague gesture with his free hand, “I dunno, wrong? Awful? Unnatural?”

His smoking companion shrugs. “Doesn't strike me as such.”

“I'm not a queer.” It bursts out of him, the sentence he's been repeating to himself again and again every time he's been around Paul for over a year now. He doesn't know why he feels the need to justify himself to her, but then, he doesn't know why he feels a lot of things.

She gives a half-smile. “Sure you're not,” she says, a touch skeptically. “With one notable exception.”

John can't argue with that. He stares at his burning cigarette. He's got half a mind to inhale the whole thing until he chokes to death. “What do you care, anyway?” he snaps, wanting to take some sort of control in this conversation.

The bird simply shrugs again. “Just interested,” she says. She angles her body toward him, then, and looks him in the eyes. “It's killing you, isn't it?” she asks flatly.

The question cuts right to the core. She's got no right to ask it, which is part of the reason why John is, once again, compelled to tell her the truth. He can't tell anyone else how much it hurts, because he can't tell anyone else what's causing the pain. But this girl has figured it out all on her own, and he can't pass up the chance to take the edge off, to pass it onto someone else. John takes a breath, but when he speaks, his voice still comes out ragged: “Yes. God, _yes_.”

For one horrible second, he thinks she might offer sympathy, but she doesn't, and he's grateful. She just turns her face away thoughtfully, still puffing on her cigarette. “So,” she says, “you don't want him to know.”

“If I did, don't you think I'd have said something by now?”

“No. Not really. Not if you didn't think he'd take it well.”

At that, John bites his lip so hard he makes himself flinch. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses the last of his cigarette to the ground and steps on it. He looks up at George's girl. “We never had this conversation,” he informs her clearly.

“What conversation?”

John almost smiles, then turns, slides the door open, and goes back inside.

“Ay,” calls George, “I hope you weren't talking up me girl out there.”

“No worries, son,” John replies, taking off his boots. “All she'd talk about was you. None too exciting, if you ask me.”

George's face lights up. “Really?”

“Yeah. Reckon she likes you, mate.”

George beams, then gets to his feet. “Think I'll go stand with her a minute. I can keep her warm, romantic-like.”

“Best hurry up, before she's finished with her fag,” John advises. Swiftly, George pulls on his coat and boots and thumps outside.

John sinks down onto the couch beside Paul. Brian is nowhere to be seen, and a glance at the couch on the opposite side reveals that Ringo has stretched out and fallen asleep. John glances at Paul, who grins, and John's heart clenches. He feels a sharp pain beneath his breastbone. He aches to touch Paul; his body screams at him to take his best friend into his arms and kiss him, but he doesn't. He can't.

“Looks like George has finally found a bird worth keeping around,” Paul comments.

“Maybe,” John replies. He looks out at the deck, where George has his arms wrapped around the girl who's seen John's heart, her head on his shoulder, her hair against his neck. John closes his eyes and imagines holding Paul like that, sharing body heat, knowing that if he wants to kiss him, all he has to do is move.

“John?” John's eyes open at the sound of Paul's voice. “You falling asleep on me too, mate?”

John shakes his head reflexively, but then he realizes how very tired he is, and not just tired of being awake. He's tired of loving, tired of hurting, tired of wanting.

Paul yawns. He moves closer and puts his head on John's shoulder, closes his eyes. John blanches, then settles, letting himself feel the weight of Paul leaning against him. He leans his own head against Paul's and breathes in deeply, smelling Paul's shampoo, and then closes his eyes as well.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, wishing he could somehow make Paul feel it, make him understand without telling him. _I fucking love you. I can't help myself. I love you._

His heart gives a painful lurch. He can't say it, but at least he can have this moment to think it. He presses closer to Paul, not knowing when he'll get another chance like this, and lets the corner of his lips just brush Paul's hair.

He loves him, and he'll never know.


End file.
